The Reason I Write

Don’t give up, don’t give in.

Write for the dreams and the forlorn nights in which you held your heart in your trembling hands and dreamed of a day that somehow your words would be a lighthouse to ships tumbling in dark, deep waters. Write for this love. Write for this depth of feeling.

The world criticises those who feel.
Who let their hearts and feelings take control and sway to the ebb and flow of where they lead.
But, have not all the greatest poets and artists and musicians fulfilled but one thing ––
their depth of feeling.

Tell me a story where there is no feeling ever involved. And I guarantee you, that’s no story.

As the world turns its nose up against those who feel with fortified passion, it forgets that – like the surprising torrents of summer rain that pour on you without warning. Feeling, the power to feel, why the absolute climatic point, of when reason gives way to the heart. When man knows he cannot go with his head anymore, for his heart is on his sleeve, thumping with a bruised, bellowing beat; to declare, alas, he is finally in love and there is no use denying it anymore…

I once thought that hardship and sadness and unrequited love were to be avoided.

But now I know that in great sadness, is great art.

In melancholy, lies the embers of the next masterpiece; for whilst elation liberates, great despair is when one is most contemplative.

To an artist, hardship and the yearning for what will never be yours, the pursuit of joy but painfully being denied it, is the fuel in which great feeling arouses the senses and suddenly, you are able to cry in ink-splotched stains upon paper, in the untidy scrawls you etch, entwining a path straight to your readers’ hearts.

Whereas elation is personal, pain is universal.

On this side of paradise, we are all lonesome souls hungering for comfort in the dead-ends of the night. Hoping to be loved and be loved and to know that despite the wreckage of life, there is still some good left intact, for us to hope in and lean on.

Such is the pursuit of beauty.
Such is the obsession with being desired.
Above all, we just want to be accepted.
And to go home.

To Eden.

Thus pain, is the well-placed wound that cuts us deep enough for us to realise, we are not well.
That we will not do.
That, this will not do.

Man seems to spend all of his existence trying to create his version of utopia only to realise that the problem is not in the earth. Nor in his surroundings. Not even in the so-called system that is grinding him up to a pulp.
No. The truth is ––––

The problem is the long wild weeds of poison that have festered in his heart and there is no way to reverse what has been deemed doomed from his birth.

No, man is not the hero.

He needs to realise.

Nor is he completely the victim.

He is as much villain as he is the victim.

At the mercy of this poisonous stock of heart that cannot be saved, except for saving grace. At the foot of the cross.
Knees bent, confessing;
that weakness must be met with forgiveness.

And in the brilliant light of his pardon –– man is finally free and redeemed. Free to love, free to love apart from darkness.
And in acknowledging his complicity to the poison of the world.
And to trust in the Son who is the only atonement for sin ––––  will man ever be saved from his own self.

And weakness becomes strength
and lost becomes found
and death becomes life

In heavenly order, God is the resurrection and restoration.

God is love.

May you, dear reader, find, reason; and love.

With love,
@littledeepthings

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